Page 12 of Max Bannon

“I’m glad you got rid of the list.”

“Me too.”

I woke up warm, tangled in something solid and safe and very much not a pillow.

Max.

His arm was still wrapped around me, his chin resting lightly on top of my head. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the room smelled faintly of tea, smoke, and something distinctly goat-like.

We’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Together.

My brain was still half-asleep, floating somewhere betweencozyandoh no I drooled on his shirt, when a sharp knock rattled the front door.

I blinked. Max didn’t move.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Then a small voice on the other side of the door yelled, “Boris!”

Max jolted awake like he’d been shot out of a cannon. “What the—was that the goat again?!”

“No,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “That was a child. Shouting for Boris.”

He blinked at me. “The goat has a kid?”

“No,that’sa kid. Who apparently knows someone named Boris.”

Max groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course, he has an owner; it has to be the goat. We should’ve known—he had too much personality to be a stray.”

Another knock, followed by the unmistakable sound of the door opening and very small boots stomping across the floor.

“Hello?” the boy called out. “I followed his poop trail!”

Max groaned again. “That sentence should never be said out loud.”

We both scrambled up, still half-asleep, just as a little boy about eight years old marched into the living room with purpose. He was wearing cowboy boots, mismatched pajamas, and a serious scowl that could rival a retired general.

“Where is he?” the boy demanded.

“Uh…” I pointed vaguely toward the front porch. “He was sleeping. Likesomeof us were until a minute ago.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “Did he try to eat your couch?”

“Yes.”

“Did he sneeze on you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he chew anything weird? Like, for example, shoes?”

I looked at Max. Max looked at me.

“…Yes.”

The kid nodded solemnly. “Yeah, that’s Boris.”

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